In a Waking Dream

in a waking dream

Leigh has always had too many dreams.

He has always dreamed too vividly; he has always dreamed too much. 

Different places, different times. Different worlds. Sometimes there are dragons and sometimes there are machines and sometimes there are creatures of moving stone that stretch up to the sky. Always there is someone there. 

A flash of a laugh; the curve of a smile. A scent that he can never remember when he wakes, one so terribly familiar and so achingly warm. The glint of a crystal necklace and the feeling of fingers tangled in his.

“Leigh,” someone says, and he turns towards that voice and he—

He wakes with an ache in his chest and a dryness in his throat. The space beside him is empty. He is alone in his room. He always has been, but somehow that feels oddly, terribly cold. 

When he was little he hoped so badly that they meant something, those dreams. It’s silly, he knows. He had everything he needed, even if his parents were always busy with research and too tired after it all to listen to a kid’s worries, let alone his fantastical dreams. He learnt young to keep it to himself, his worries and his dreams and his odd longings, but thinking of that person, the one with the smile, the one who listened and knew him and was always there—

It was like being offered everything and nothing and all the things in-between. It meant the whole world but it was just a dream and in a home of researchers and intellectual pursuit it meant nothing at all. No matter how hard Leigh tried he could never remember anything but the feeling of love and companionship and the world stretching out before his feet, and those are not quantifiable or materializable or something he could ever begin to explain—and eventually he stopped trying to hope.  

#

But they say that every face you see in a dream is one you’ve seen before. It’s believed that every dream has basis in reality. So Leigh reads and reads and reads, books and research papers and people, anything and everything, because his mind is sharp and bright like the razor edge of a knife and hungry as the frog in the well, longing for the sky—

But also because he is searching, searching, always searching, for something that he’s never seen, something that he needs like breath to find. 

#

He grows up. He becomes a teacher and moves into his own apartment; his sister moves in with him two years later. 

The town’s governance has always been a sham: his parents have discussed bad politics over dinner while Leigh smiled and nodded and contributed thoughtfully, intellectually, keeping personal feelings carefully from the equation even as he laughed and pulled smiles from his family in turn. As Leigh works he sees the reality of those dinnertime conversations, the children who come to school hungry or wan or sick. He begins volunteering in an orphanage and he sees there, too, the way there’s never quite enough to go around. 

And Leigh has always dreamed too much, dreamed too big. He wants to make it better, this small piece of the world in which he lives. 

Which is how he meets Han. 

It’s funny, almost. It’s a bad day. He’s in the middle of town, and law enforcement is quite interested in where he was last night: a point of time at which Leigh was in a store he’d not technically been allowed into, acquiring goods he was not technically entitled to have. He’s laughing, deflecting, searching for a better excuse—then an arm loops through his, and a warm weight presses against his side. Leigh looks down, and there’s a red-haired man smiling up at him, bright and edged with mischief, and. 

And it’s like Leigh’s been underwater his whole life, trapped beneath a sheet of thick ice; like someone’s foot just plunged through the surface, setting the water churning and letting in light and air and life. 

“So this is where you were!” the man says. “Next time send a text, okay? I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” 

And Leigh knows it’s ridiculous but something’s caught strangle-tight and familiar in his lungs; Leigh doesn’t want to be ridiculous but some part of him’s drawing breaths that shudder with relief older than the world. 

Leigh looks at that red-haired man with his bright smile and feels a lifetime of odd dreams tumble into place. He thinks, irrational, impossible: You’re finally here. Thinks, I’ve been searching for you too. 

The man turns to the police, and he’s asking. God. It takes Leigh a moment to parse it, and when he does he almost chokes on his own spit. The man’s calling Leigh his husband, his honey, who must have been too embarrassed to say anything, truly, he is so sorry for the trouble. And oh, why would his husband be embarrassed? Because his darling has terrible bowel control, of course, and of course he couldn’t have done anything last night—he was too busy sitting upon his porcelain throne, positively shitting his brains out. 

His smile is entirely angelic. Then the officers look at Leigh, and Leigh attempts to look suitably bashful and diarrheal, and they walk away, they actually do, and for a few moments after, Leigh cannot meet the stranger’s eyes. 

He can’t, and neither can the man meet his, because they don’t even know each other’s names but they do know this: that if they meet each other’s eyes they’ll begin to laugh, and that if they do they won’t be able to stop, and God. God.

Leigh feels like he’s waking from a deep sleep; he feels like he’s stepping into a beautiful dream. Either or both and all he knows now, in this moment, is that the sky is shining and that the familiar stranger’s name is Han and that his day suddenly isn’t so bad. 

(It’s a good start. It’s promising. Later, in retrospect, it will look like a particularly spiteful twist of fate. A twist like this: Bury a knife to the hilt in your chest and turn it, hot and sharp. Do it fast, and in the beginning you won’t even feel the pain. 

For now it feels like a beginning. And it is, it is. It is the beginning of Leigh’s end.)

#

The rest of the beginning, sinking in to the hilt:

Han is an artist; his art is a living thing, gasping vibrantly to life. It spills off the page like a sunset breaking past its bounds—and the first time Leigh sees his paintings, he stops dead. All of him, breath and voice and heart. Because Han has painted sprawling fields and blue sky and ruins and something in it feels so familiar that it aches. 

“This is beautiful,” Leigh says, trailing his fingers lightly, reverently over the canvas. “What was your inspiration, if I may ask? How did you come up with this?” 

“Oh,” Han says, and he looks a little embarrassed. “It’s not a real place. Just something I made up.” He grins at Leigh, though there’s something oddly wary in the set of his gaze, something Leigh can’t quite place. “It feels right, doesn’t it?” 

Leigh grins back and skims his fingers across the breathlessly blue sky. “Yes—yes. It does. It’s like something I’ve seen in a dream.”

He meets Han’s eyes and feels an impossible connection there, like a dislocated bone clicking back into place. 

“It feels right,” he says. “Truly. You’re incredible, Han.”

Han laughs. “I am, aren’t I?” He nudges Leigh with his elbow. “But you’re talented too, aren’t you? I’ve heard you play the guitar.”

It feels right. Han is an artist and he paints things that feel like Leigh’s dreams—he feels like Leigh’s dreams, like warmth and love and impossibilities, like forevers, like healing and like joy. Han himself has lived in three cities and found something to love in each one: he loves fast, loves easy, loves hard. And he tells Leigh about himself, but he asks the same of Leigh: asks, what about you, and presses gently when Leigh glosses his answers over, opens a space for Leigh with gentle hands. 

So Leigh tells Han about his village, the terrible wreck of its politics and the way Leigh loves it anyway: loves it for its cobblestone streets and its old buildings and its rolling hills, loves it for housing every person he has ever loved. He tells Han about his work and his volunteering and his dreams. Not the ones of laughter and love and strange warmth, of course. Those he holds close and silly and precious still, and instead he tells Han of the dreams he has to make the town better, to make it a place with hope. 

Technically, Leigh hasn’t known Han long enough to tell him of his illicit activities, even if it feels like they’ve been friends longer than a life. So this technically isn’t a confession of what Leigh was doing, the night before they met. 

Han says anyway, “So that’s why you spent so long in the bathroom.” At Leigh’s quizzical look, he winks. “Shitting your brains out, remember? Must have been the stress.” 

It’s an I understand and I don’t mind and I’ll cover for you and it is so much to be given, it is so terribly kind. It’s being seen without having to hurt, being known without having to try. And Leigh, Leigh is filled up with something warm and aching, something painfully akin to love. 

(Three weeks after they meet, Leigh has one of those old dreams. And when that strange, familiar person calls his name, Leigh recognises Han’s voice.)

#

Han has a boyfriend.

Han sounds just a little apologetic when he says it. Leigh thinks it might mean that Han feels it too, this connection between them, this longing that eats through his ribs towards Han and maybe, if he dares to hope, through Han’s chest towards his—

—but Han is loyal and he loves hard and Leigh knows that this wanting in his own chest, this has to end. So he smiles graciously and says yes, of course, go have dinner with him, don’t worry about meeting me tonight. And he goes home and smiles for his sister and busies himself with the chores. 

He is an old hand, by now, at swallowing his pointless, silly dreams. 

#

They keep meeting, of course. They stay friends. 

It’s autumn, just cold enough to cover the ground in sheets of flame-coloured leaves that Han scatters laughingly over Leigh. Just warm enough that Leigh can still bring Han to the place where an entire field of flowers unfurls, and show Han two trees that have grown so close together they’ve become joined, growing into one another so it’s impossible to tell where one ends and another begins. 

I wonder what they call it, Han says, and when Leigh can’t answer Han looks it up on his phone. Insoculation, he announces delightedly, brandishing the phone in Leigh’s face. A word so rare it’s not in most dictionaries. A phenomenon so strange and so magical it seems artificial but it’s not. It’s not. 

In the winter, they go out to the hills and slide down the slopes in homemade sleds. Often, they meet in Han’s house and dance to ridiculous songs, fast and cheerful and wild, falling into laughter each time they catch each other’s eyes—

And once, between winter and spring, at the turn of the year when the weather is just warm enough for seedlings to sprout, a love song comes on while they’re dancing—and Han leaves it on, and their steps slow, and like two neighboring trees growing into one another Leigh settles his hand on the small of Han’s back and Han settles his on Leigh’s shoulder and they tangle the fingers of their free hands together and god. God, it’s unfair. There are no words to describe the smile on Han’s face or the feeling in Leigh’s chest, nothing that Leigh could look up and present to Han to describe this impossible combination of beauty and tenderness and ache—

Love, maybe. Love so great Leigh is choking on it, love so great it hurts—but it can’t be that sort of love. It’s not allowed to be. 

#

And it is unfair, it really is, because Han’s boyfriend keeps hurting him. And Leigh wants to take Han away and make him happy, make him safe, but instead all he does is sit with Han on his couch and hold Han as he cries. 

Over so many things, so many hurts. A careless insult here, a dismissal there. Little things that aren’t little, not really, that leave Han crying for how they make him feel small and unimportant, like he’s just not worth much to the person he’d give up everything for. 

“He said we’d go to dinner tonight,” he tells Leigh, once. It’s three in the morning and he’s sitting on the sofa, red-eyed, hands hugging a pillow against his chest like it can shield him against the blow—like it’s not far too little, far too late. “He said it’d be special.” 

Leigh nods, looking at Han’s crumpled expression and feeling his own chest crumple in and in and in. 

“But he went for dinner with someone else.” Han presses his face against the pillow as if that’ll hide the sick hurt in his voice. “His colleague. And he didn’t even tell me. And I was—”

He is gripping too tightly at the pillow to gesture down at himself, but Leigh looks anyway, at his button-up top and sleek long pants, at the way he’d dressed up because it had been special, to him. Because it had mattered, to him.

“Why wouldn’t he just tell me?” Han asks, and his voice is almost wondering with hurt. 

Because he’s unkind, Leigh thinks. Because he’s too self-absorbed to care about anyone else. Because he doesn’t deserve you.

“What did he say?” Leigh asks instead. 

“He didn’t think it was important.” Han curls into himself. “But he said it was special. So why would he say it wasn’t important?” He lifts his head from the pillow and looks at Leigh. His eyes are bright against his tear-wet cheeks. “Leigh, was he right? Am I being too much—”

“Han,” Leigh cuts in gently.  “Han, no.” 

“He didn’t think it was important.” The unspoken corollary, of course: he didn’t think Han was important. “You can just tell me. Was he right?” 

“He was wrong,” Leigh says, and he doesn’t often hate but he hates this, hates seeing Han with so much love to give being trampled on like so much nothing. As if, because he loves so completely, people can be thoughtless with his love. “It was important.” 

He wraps an arm around Han’s shoulders, pulls Han against his side. “It mattered. You matter.” He tries for a grin. “I’m a teacher. Trust me.” 

Han folds easily against Leigh’s side, soft and wounded and tear-fevered beneath Leigh’s arm. 

“Okay,” he says, very softly. “Thank you, Leigh.”

Leigh hears the way the agreement sounds like an effort—like the fact that this is important, that Han is important, is something that Han has to work to believe—and hates that, too, even as he tucks Han more closely against his side. 

“Nothing to thank me for,” he says lightly. “As long as you remember what I said.”

#

He doesn’t, and two days later he’s crying on Leigh’s sofa again, and watching him Leigh hurts. 

Once Han’s cried himself out, they sit together in silence. Han curls against Leigh’s side; Leigh settles his arm over Han’s shoulders. The night feels stale and stagnant. There’s a dry feeling at the back of Leigh’s throat. 

“I think you may give him too much,” Leigh says at last. Too much credit, too much leeway. Too much forgiveness, too much of himself. 

Han looks down, fingers scratching lightly at the patterns of his cushion. The rims of his eyes are red. “Do I? I wonder.” 

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just,” Han says, and scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Maybe I’m just a bad boyfriend.” Maybe I’m just not good enough, he doesn’t say, but Leigh hears it anyway. Sees it in the wounded curl of his shoulders, the wet twist of his voice. Maybe if I were better at giving more—

“Han.” Leigh catches his fidgeting hand, looks him in his tear-damp eyes. “No. It’s not your fault.”

“I don’t know,” Han says, and he sounds so lost, voice edged with something desperate. “I don’t know, Leigh. He’s happy. Isn’t it enough if he’s happy?” 

“And what about you? You matter, Han. It matters that you’re not happy.” 

Han looks down again. 

“But if he’s happy,” he repeats, “shouldn’t that be enough?” 

Leigh shakes his head and pulls Han a little closer. 

He says, “It’s not.” 

#

Two days later and Leigh’s making another not-quite-legal trip to the government-owned store at three in the morning, because medicines are ridiculously overpriced and there are far too many sick children in his class—then a light goes on down the corridor and footsteps come his way, and Leigh shoves open the window and launches himself out through it, feeling something catch and tear at his side before he rolls to his feet and slides the window shut behind him. 

His side throbs, hot. When he looks down, his black turtleneck’s torn, revealing a deep, ragged cut in bloodied skin. He glances back at the window, at the twisted piece of old metal sticking from the sill like a blunt knife. 

A shrug and a smile, because it hurts but he’ll be alright, and there’s enough medicine in his bag for all of his kids to use for a month. He bunches up the fabric of his shirt, pressing it over the hot wound, and starts back across town.

He’s crossing the town square when he hears, “Leigh?” 

Leigh’s heart skips approximately five beats in his throat. He turns; Han’s standing behind him, all pale skin and bright eyes in the dim moonlight. 

“Han?” Leigh grins, trying to shake off the remnants of that cold shock. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“It is, isn’t it? What are you doing out this late?” Han gasps, mock-scandalized. “Out on a midnight tryst?” 

Leigh laughs and raises one hand, the one not busy pressing blood-wet fabric to his side. “Guilty as charged! His husband came home early, so I had to go out the window.”

Han’s laughing and shaking his head; Leigh can see another joke forming on his smile before his eyes catch on Leigh’s occupied hand and his brow furrows. “Is everything okay?” 

“Of course! Except for how I just got cucked, I suppose.” Leigh presses his free hand to his chest. “But alas. What about you?” 

Han steps closer; touches cool fingers against Leigh’s, the ones pressed hard over his side. “I’m worried about you. Show me?” 

“Worried about me?” Leigh laughs. “What about yourself? Pretty thing like you, out alone so late.” 

“Won’t you let me see? Please?” Han tugs lightly at Leigh’s hand, an edge of frustration in his tone; Leigh hesitates, relents.

It doesn’t look good, he has to admit. His hand is wet with a slightly appalling amount of blood. His side is dark with it. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Leigh tries to explain. “You know how it goes—escape the jealous husband, get caught by the window. Nothing some tape and spit won’t fix, eh?” 

Han looks up at him, eyes burning with something Leigh cannot read. Leigh’s voice dies a little in his throat. 

“Why would you try to hide this?” 

“I wasn’t trying to, was I? There’s nothing to hide. Really, don’t worry about it.” 

“Let me decide what to worry about, okay? I care about you.”

“I care about you too. It’s fine, truly!” He smiles down at Han, stepping back. “So why are you out so late tonight?”  

“Leigh,” Han says, and it stops Leigh’s voice in his throat because he’s never—

He’s never seen Han angry before. 

“Let me help you,” Han says, stepping closer, closing the space between them again. “Let me take care of you for once.” 

“I do,” Leigh says, because Han listens to him and Han sees him and it’s healing, it is—every time he talks to Han it soothes some small part of him that Leigh hadn’t realized was so, so alone. There’s no reason for him to ask for any more than that. There’s no need for it, no need for others’ worry, no need to waste their energy and effort and time. “I do, Han. I’m fine.”

“This isn’t fine,” Han says angrily. “You’re always telling me to take care of myself, but what about you? You matter too, Leigh.” 

Leigh looks down at Han; he’s still smiling, but his breath is stopped in his throat. Everything in him is one tight ache. 

So he lets Han guide him back to his home; sits on Han’s sofa beneath the buttery yellow light and lets Han wipe his wound clean, lets him spread antiseptic gently over damaged skin. Lets him chide and tease and help. 

“Thank you,” he says, once Han’s covered the gash up with soft white gauze. The painkillers have begun to set in, and for a moment everything is gentle; for this one moment, nothing hurts. 

“Of course. That’s what friends are for, right?” 

Leigh looks up at him—at Han standing smiling beneath the warm light, looking happy because Leigh let him in. 

“Yes,” Leigh says, and for a moment when he smiles it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to hide anything—like he’s smiling just for the sake of smiling, smiling just because he’s warm. “I suppose it is.” 

#

Han is painting a picture for his boyfriend, and it is one of the most beautiful things Leigh has ever seen. 

It’s a portrait of the man: he’s easy on the eyes, yes, all soft hair and a sharp jaw, but it’s the tenderness in the brushstrokes, the gentleness of the light—like a caress on the man’s cheek—that makes the subject really shine. An unremarkable man made utterly radiant in the light of Han’s love. 

Leigh is breathless in the wake of it, this painting laid out before him like an exposed beating heart. Like Han has cut open his own chest and poured his breath into his art. And Leigh is left more breathless still, wondering for a helpless moment how Han would paint him, if he would see that same painful love poured into each brushstroke like Han wants to etch it into the world—

—swallow it down, swallow it down. Leigh is not the man in that painting. Leigh has never been like him. He has never been someone to place front and center, like the breath and heart of someone’s entire world. 

Step aside, he tells himself, and steps aside, tears his gaze from that portrait and onto Han. 

Han, who smiles up at him with just the slightest uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. Han, who has poured his heart onto a canvas and laid it out for Leigh to see. 

Han with his blue eyes and his hair falling soft over his shoulders and Han whom Leigh loves, god, Han whom Leigh loves so much it hurts. 

“You’re a talented guy, Han.” A grin, belated. He gestures at the painting and says, “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Han beams and at once it makes a liar of Leigh. Because Han smiles at him in the slanting studio sunlight, and all Leigh can think is that for all the art Han has made, for all of his talent, for all of his skill—the best work of art Han has ever made was Han himself. 

All Leigh can think is that Han with his joyful smile and his bright blue eyes, that’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. 

#

“Leigh,” Han says, a few weeks later. “Leighhhhhh.” 

He pushes his face in close to Leigh’s, and Leigh blinks out of thought, pulling back and pulling an indulgent smile on for Han. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he laughs. “What were you saying?” 

“That you look handsome when you’re distracted,” Han says cheekily, and god, the pang of that ache spears straight through him, cleaving through rib and lung. 

Leigh knows he’s smart enough, knows he’s good looking enough. If only he was smart enough and good looking enough and just. Enough. For Han to pick him—for him to be someone Han would choose, over the man in that painting, the one who’s hurt Han a thousand times and who Han still, still runs to instead of Leigh. 

I would treat you better than that, Leigh thinks, but that’s not the point and his jealousy is not the point and Leigh is not the point and so he shoves the selfish, foolish thought ruthlessly into the corner of his lungs where it sits like a crumpled scrap of paper, giving him just a little less room to breathe.  

“Leigh,” Han says, and Leigh turns his smile on him even as Han asks, “What’s wrong? You’ve been distracted.”

“Do I? Well. Far be it from me to ignore someone as pretty as you.” Leigh picks a flower and tucks it teasingly into Han’s hair. “Let me treat you to dinner to make up for it.” 

“Leigh,” Han says, and reaches out to catch Leigh’s hand between both of his. “What’s going on? You can tell me.”

He’s so earnest and so open and so kind and it—all of it, the kindness and the warmth and Han, just Han—catches at the edge of Leigh’s chest and tears it wide open. 

I can’t, Leigh thinks, helpless and almost desperate with it. I love you and I wish you’d leave your boyfriend for a thousand reasons but one of them is that I want to kiss you so much it hurts and I’m not enough to make you love me and I can’t be this selfish and I can’t tell you, I can’t, I can’t.

He laughs and steps back instead of leaning in, pulls his hand from between Han’s and laces his fingers behind his head. The loss of Han’s warmth aches worse than a physical blow. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says easily. “Except that you haven’t told me where we’re going for dinner! Man of mystery, eh, Han?” 

Han steps towards him; he’s still smiling but there’s something a little uncertain behind it. “Well, if you’re sure—”

Leigh grins, and steps back with dramatic cheerfulness, and keeps the distance between them, polite. “When am I ever not?” 

#

And he can’t love Han this way. Han has a boyfriend and he loves him and Leigh wants him to be happy and this is selfish, this is ugly, this is wrong. 

He isn’t doing anything. He never goes beyond the boundary of friend, never even pushes it, but this feeling in his chest, this awful desperate-hungry want—

He can’t. He can’t.

So he dresses up and he goes on dates and usually the people across the table are good-looking, and mostly he can make them laugh, and sometimes after dinner they’ll lean in and they’ll kiss him and they’ll say I love you, I feel like I’ve been searching for you forever, I think you’re the one.

And Leigh smiles, and kisses them back, and he thinks, you don’t even know me. He thinks, you talked and I listened and you don’t even know I have a sister, you don’t even know what I studied in school, all you know is that I know how to listen and say the right words—

Most people are the heroes of their own stories. Most of them are just looking for their backup, their sidekick. And Leigh knows he’s always been good at that and he knows he should be happy, that he does this so well, that he’s wanted for what he does best, but.

But they don’t know him. And they don’t care to. And maybe it hurts and maybe he feels like his voice is all tangled up in his throat like a garotte-wire string with all the words he cannot say, and maybe he could live with that—

But they don’t look at every new day like it’s a new piece of magic unfurling in their hands. They don’t laugh bright and warm and mischievous like a secret. They don’t smile with an edge of sharp tooth in their grin, they don’t have blue eyes and sunset hair and a heart larger than the world and they’re not…

They’re not Han. 

#

Then it’s two in the morning and it’s pouring outside and someone’s at Leigh’s door, knocking frantic and panicked like a bird battering itself to pieces against cage bars. And when Leigh opens the door it’s Han, Han in his nightclothes with his too-big t-shirt slipping down one shoulder and his hair plastered to his head, pale in the darkness like the rain’s washed the color from his skin. 

He’s bawling, standing on the steps and dragging the back of his hands over his eyes. His cheek’s swollen up and angry red, a cut across it like something caught and tore the skin. Beneath the low rumble of thunder and the hailstone-smack of rain, his voice is wounded and raw. Leigh and I’m sorry and I didn’t know where else to go and Leigh is reaching out without a second thought, pulling Han out of the cold and into his arms.

“Han,” he says. “Han. It’s okay. You’re always welcome here. It’s okay.” 

The rainwater in Han’s clothes is soaking through Leigh’s, plastering them cold against his skin, but Leigh doesn’t care because Han’s body against his is shaking, desperate and lost, and his fingers in the back of Leigh’s shirt are tight and clinging like a scared child’s, and when he presses his face against Leigh’s shoulder he begins to cry like Leigh has never before heard him cry. 

#

Han tells him the story in pieces, freshly-showered and curled up against Leigh on the couch. Another fight with his boyfriend, except that this one was longer and louder and worse, so much worse, and his boyfriend had torn up the masterpiece Han had painted him like he was ripping up Han’s heart before Han’s eyes; had said that he didn’t get it, really, he never got it, why Han wasted all this time on his stupid art, painting worlds that didn’t exist and stories that didn’t matter when Han could be doing something actually useful, and he’d lashed out and hit Han across the face and Han knew that he should have said something, that he should have done something, but all he could do was stand and hurt and cry. 

“I’m done,” Han chokes into Leigh’s shoulder, crying like he’s been crying since this started, crying like he’ll never stop. The ice pack Leigh gave him is sitting on the sofa, melting against the seat. “No more. I can’t do this anymore, Leigh. I can’t do this again.”

Leigh smooths back Han’s hair, resting his chin on the top of Han’s head and holding him precious and close. His entire chest is one throbbing ache. 

“Okay,” he soothes. “Okay. You can leave, Han. You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I’m leaving,” Han says, raw and low. “No more. Never again.”

And Leigh thinks—

God. This is not about him. And he knows it, he does, but for an awful moment he thinks, selfish and horrible, never?

The thought feels punched-out and broken, a convulsive wounded thing. Something in his chest twists and he feels torn all the way through, cold and struck-through and raw. 

He presses his face into Han’s hair, helpless and aching for one terrible moment, silenced by a self-centered hurt that blocks up his whole throat. 

“No more,” he repeats at last, and the words scrape through his chest like a blade against his ribs but they leave his mouth soothing, leave his tongue kind. “It’s okay, Han. It’s okay.”

With every word he shuts a door and shuts a door and shuts a door. 

“It’s over,” he says. “Don’t worry. You never have to do this again.”

#

 Han sleeps on his couch that night; Leigh doesn’t sleep. 

He goes through books and old research papers and sheet music, anything to wear out the ache of his chest and the spinning of his mind. It hurts. God. It hurts. And he is hurting for Han, he is, he is, the man who painted his heart and world onto a canvas and watched it ripped into shreds, but a part of him—

A part of him, a bigger one than he thinks should be allowed, just hurts. For the way he met Han and loved him, for the way he knew Han to the depths of Han’s heart and Han knew him to the very soul; for trips to flower fields and dances in Han’s home. For the way even when Han had a boyfriend there was this tiny guilty hope, and now for no more, for never again. 

Maybe Han will change his mind, but Leigh won’t bet on it. That’s not what Han needs. So no more means no more, and never again means never again.

No more hoping. Never again.

He opens another book, and sits for half an hour without reading a word on the page.

#

Han’s happier, after the breakup. 

He still misses his boyfriend. He still hurts from a hundred old wounds; he still draws for hours, trying to paint away the ache. But something in him seems lighter, and it grows rarer for Leigh to see him cry. 

He shows Leigh his paintings, talks about his worlds and his stories, and Leigh tells him that they’re beautiful, really, that he can almost see them, that he almost feels like he’s there.

The strange thing, the funny one, is that he can. With Han’s voice framing the story and the sweeping scenes of it spread out in paint, Leigh could swear he’s seen it before. Leigh could swear he’s lived it before. 

So he tells Han that, and he tells Han that it’s beautiful, that it’s magical, really it is, and without Han’s boyfriend snapping at him every other day, Han looks at Leigh with the sky in his eyes; Han looks like it doesn’t take him quite so much effort, now, to believe it. 

Thank you, he says, and bounds to his feet, and together they go sightseeing and food-tasting, they go dancing and ice-skating, they go fishing and a fish goes down the front of Leigh’s shirt and they both go falling into the water and they laugh, and laugh, and laugh. 

#

It’s good. Han’s happy. And Leigh swallows down and swallows down and swallows down that ache until it feels like there’s an ever-present lump in his throat—but mostly he does a great job forgetting to hope. 

#

It’s six months after that rainy night and autumn again. Leigh’s reading a book in a clearing in the woods, and Han’s scattering leaves playfully over Leigh’s head. 

“Leigh,” Han says.

Leigh flips a page. “Yes?”

“Leighhh.”

“Yes, Han?”

 “Leighhhhh,” Han says, “Look at me. I’m dying without your attention.”

“That sounds like a problem.” Leigh finally looks up, smiling. “We can’t have that, eh?”

“We can’t,” Han says. He’s smiling, but there’s a flush high on his cheeks. Before Leigh can ask about it, Han says, “So you should take me out.”

Leigh’s mind goes blank. 

But of course he can’t mean—no more, he said. Never again. 

“For dinner, you mean? Well, I could never deny someone as pretty as you,” Leigh says lightly. “Where would you like to go?”

“Leigh. We already have dinner plans.” Han’s cheeks are very red. “So another day. As a date.”

Leigh stares. 

He opens his mouth. He shuts it again. He tries to convince his heart to beat. 

“Not that I’m not flattered,” he gets out at last. His voice comes out light and cheerful but it feels very far away. “I am! I’m delighted. But you said—”

Han is looking at him with something like concern. Leigh swallows, stops. 

“I’m flattered,” he says. “Han. I’d like nothing better than to take you on a date. But you said—”

And it hurts, to say the words. It hurts. But he’s smiling and he keeps his voice easy, keeps it serious but gentle. 

“You said you never wanted to do that again.”

Han smiles and there’s something tremulous beneath it, something uncertain. His fingers are tugging, insistent and lost, at a lock of his own hair. 

“I didn’t,” he says. “He was so unkind, Leigh. They were all so unkind.” 

Han’s last boyfriend, and the string of others that came before him. “I know.”

“I don’t want to do that again,” Han says. He tugs a little harder at his hair. Leigh thinks of reaching out, of telling him to be gentler with himself. “But it’s you, right? It’s different with you.”

Something is rising impossible and aching in his chest and throat. It feels like choking. It feels like resurrecting. 

“Well,” Leigh says, and his voice comes out amused and indulgent and gentle and not lost at all.  “I’d very much like it to be.” 

Han smiles at him, tentative, something bright at the edges of his expression. “Is that a yes?” 

Leigh laughs, and stands, and leans in to kiss Han on the forehead. “It’s an I’d love to.” 

Han laughs, and when Leigh pulls back he catches the front of Leigh’s shirt, and before Leigh can catch his breath he’s being pulled down and Han is kissing him, warm and deep on the lips and Leigh, Leigh does not remember how to breathe. 

Han breaks away and grins at him, bright and mischievous, looking so happy it almost hurts.

“And this is an I love you,” he says, and Leigh feels like he’s in one of Han’s paintings—like he’s in another world, in a story, in a dream. 

#

It’s like all the strange, half-forgotten dreams Leigh has ever had: is Han’s fingers tangled in his, is Han’s flashing laugh and bright smile, is companionship and happiness and just like every dream he’s ever had, Leigh is certain it is going to end. 

Mostly he manages not to think of that; mostly it’s good and it’s warm and it’s joyful, truly joyful, in a way that settles beneath his smile and skin and heart. But some nights he dreams of reaching for Han and grasping at empty air; some days he kisses Han on the forehead and on the cheek and never on the mouth, because some part of him still remembers being forbidden from doing just that. Some days he just aches for no reason, none at all. 

“What’s wrong?” Han asks one day. They’re sitting in the field of flowers from last autumn, Han’s head lying in Leigh’s lap as Leigh runs gentle fingers through his hair. 

“What could possibly be wrong?” Leigh asks, kissing Han lightly on the forehead. Han pouts, tapping his own lips; Leigh smiles and kisses him deep. 

“I don’t know,” Han says. He catches Leigh’s cheeks between cool hands and looks up into Leigh’s eyes. “You’ve been distant.” 

“Have I? Let me remedy that now.” 

He leans in to kiss Han again; Han allows it, but as soon as he pulls away, Han catches a lock of Leigh’s hair and tugs lightly.  

“Leigh,” he says, pushing at the edges of Leigh’s mouth with his fingers. “Let me listen.” 

“Well, if you insist, I could sing you a song—”

“Leigh,” Han repeats, and there’s a crease between his brows. Frustration, Leigh knows—one that Leigh cannot easily smooth away. “Tell me.” 

Maybe it could be that easy, Leigh thinks. So easy as opening his mouth and speaking his mind—which turns out to be not easy at all, as he opens his mouth and finds no words, shuts it again and smiles. 

“I think I’ve always dreamt of you,” Leigh tries instead. “Did you know that? I had these recurring dreams, and when I met you, it just felt right.” 

Han looks up at him, eyes round and surprised. He tugs lightly at Leigh’s hair again, says, “Don’t dodge the question.” 

“I’m not, I’m not.” Surely it’s not dodging the question if he answers and turns it on Han instead. “I hated the way your boyfriend treated you, you know.” 

Han smiles, tapping Leigh’s nose gently. “It’s not about me. Let it be about you.” 

Leigh scrunches up his nose. “It is about me, isn’t it? I saw him treat you so badly and I hated it. He took you for granted. I was thinking about that, is all.” 

“Were you jealous?” Han asks, and Leigh.

God. Leigh hadn’t meant for him to realize that much. His heart’s beating too fast in his chest; there’s a heat like panic burning across his lungs. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know that’s ugly of me.” 

“Leigh.” Han meets Leigh’s gaze. “It’s not. You’re allowed to want things too, you know.” 

Leigh laughs. “I know, I know.” He winks. “And right now I want you.” 

“Let this be about you,” Han insists. “I know you’re all about hearing people’s stories, but what about your own? Your story matters too.” 

Leigh looks down at Han, still smiling but wordless for a brief moment with the tangle of emotions in his throat.

“I get it,” he says laughingly, though he isn’t quite so sure he does. “Thank you.” 

“Of course! You can thank me by telling me what’s on your mind.” 

Han’s relentless, he really is. Leigh waffles over it for a long moment, but he doesn’t see how he can get out of this one. 

“Do you still miss your boyfriend?” he asks at last, voice easy like if he just keeps it light enough he can keep it from touching the fear in his lungs. 

Han wasn’t expecting that, he can tell. His eyes are wide and startled for a brief moment before he says, “Sometimes. But I’m happy now. You make me happy, Leigh.” 

Leigh looks down at him and smiles and feels like his heart is eating right out of his chest. “You know if you’re ever unhappy, you could find someone else?” 

“I already have you. Why would I want anyone else?” 

Leigh laughs. “I’m amazing, I know. But just in case.” 

Because if this is a story then everyone else is their own hero, and everyone else is a main character. And they’re allowed to live so fully and so wholly, they’re allowed to take center stage—and maybe they have something that Leigh doesn’t. Maybe the main characters will always have something that’s missing in the supporting cast.

Maybe Leigh will always just be smart enough and just handsome enough and just never enough. 

“No,” Han says abruptly. 

“No?” 

“No. I don’t want anyone else.” Han takes Leigh’s face between his hands and pulls him down and kisses him, kisses him hard and fierce. When he pulls away, his lips are red and his eyes are blazing. “How could I not be happy, as long as I’m with you?” 

Leigh looks down at him, helpless and aching. “Thank you, Han.” He traces his hands gently over Han’s hair and laughs, soft. “It’s funny, don’t you think? When I met you, I thought it was the beginning of the end.”

Han’s laugh is a warm echo of Leigh’s own. “Yes, well, it was, wasn’t it?” Han smiles up at him, bright. And this, sitting with Han in a flower field beneath an endless sky, this is better than anything Leigh has ever dreamed. “The beginning of our happy end.” 

#

Han is painting a picture for his boyfriend, and it is one of the most beautiful things Leigh has ever seen. 

And Leigh is breathless with it, because it’s one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen and it’s of Leigh, Leigh in the center of that picture like the breath and heart of Han’s entire world and Leigh—

Leigh has never been someone to be put first place. But he’s there, the subject of the photo, painted into one of Han’s beautiful, strangely-familiar worlds like he belongs. 

When he tells himself to step aside, and tries to, Han is looking at him. There’s something tentative and uncertain in the set of his shoulders but he is looking at Leigh like Leigh is his whole heart and love and home. 

“You’re a talented guy, Han,” Leigh says, and god. God, he can say what he wanted to say, all those months ago. “This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” 

“Only one of them?” Han jokes, but there’s something scared and shadowed in his eyes. The part of him that remembers a man taking his exposed heart and ripping it to pieces before his eyes. “What’s the most beautiful, then?”

Leigh cups Han’s face very gently between his hands, and grins, and looks deep into Han’s blue eyes. 

God, he thinks. I love this man so much it hurts. 

“You,” he says, and kisses Han deep. 

THE END